A Thousand Flaws & More
by greenwood-esther
Summary: Challenges line the path of Lothíriel and Éomer's rocky relationship. Bad first impressions, mean pranks, Lothíriel's irrational hatred of horses… As Lothíriel learns and grows, so does Éomer's understanding of her complex character.
1. Chapter I

A THOUSAND FLAWS & MORE _(previously OF TWO MINDS)_

CHAPTER I.

* * *

What first warned Lothíriel of their impending arrival at the White City was the lull in the once constant buzz that had accompanied her whole ride from Dol Amroth. She was finally enjoying some quiet in her little horse-drawn carriage, but knew it wouldn't last long; the chatter abated only for a couple of seconds, before picking up again with renewed vigour. The people that rode from the South, mostly civilians ready to celebrate in the post-war festivities, were finally within reaching distance of reuniting with loved ones who had gone to fight in the war.

Lothíriel was excited too, having been separated from her father and brothers for many months. But she was reluctant to leave her seaside palace and instead emigrate to Minas Tirith for the next few months. The complex architecture, with its labyrinthine levels and fortified city walls, were unlike anything in the south. She had rarely visited the city when she was younger, yet every time she did, she was overwhelmed, both with awe and with something akin to claustrophobia. The practicality of building upwards rather than outwards, so that all the houses, and the markets, and the halls, seemed stacked on top of each other, like a bucket of freshly caught sea bass, had always seemed too military – as if its sole purpose of being built was to be protected like a stronghold, rather than inhabited.

"My lady, we're here," her handmaiden informed, just as the doors to the carriage were opened by a footman. He offered her his hand to help her exit, and she did so gracefully, and with just a slight pain in her backside. Although the coach had been decadently furnished, with beautiful tassels and drapes with golden trimming, at this point Lothíriel wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between its velvet seats and a milking stool. She had been sat down all day, for the last few weeks, and now that she was finally standing, her bottom felt bruised and her legs wobbly. Nevertheless, she stood to her full height, smoothing out her rumpled skirt, and looked around her, hoping she would spy her family. It was difficult to see past the heads of the soldiers who had constituted her escort. Thankfully, they had spotted her first, and Erchirion had been the first to surprise her by lifting her into the air and spinning her in his arms wildly.

"Lothíriel, sister!" he exclaimed in his excitement, as her other two brothers and father caught up.

Unimpressed by his reckless display of familial affection, Lothíriel begged him to put her down. "Brother, you have truly gone insane!" she squealed.

Finally he placed her feet back on the ground, where she was abruptly enveloped in three more pairs of arms. She recognised the distinct sea salt scent of them all, even though they had been away from the ocean for so long, and despite hating all sorts of unnecessary human contact, she nonetheless savoured the warm, genial hugs from her family.

"It has been too long, daughter," her father finally said, loosening his arms from around her. "My, thank goodness, you don't look changed at all." He smiled down at her fondly, grasping her face in his large wrinkled hands.

"I'm so relieved to see all you again." She looked upon the faces of each of her brothers in turn and finally up to the face of her father, lined with age, yet youthful in every other aspect. She truly was very appreciative that her family managed to survive the war with no serious injuries. She had heard about her cousin and his heroic sacrifice after she had received the news that the war was over, and she mourned for him as she did for all the other countless fatalities, but, whether this made her selfish or not, she was ultimately just relieved that her brothers and father had all made it through. "Enough of this loitering; I need a bath at once, or I may just die of shame if anyone else sees me in this state."

They laughed at her dramatics, but were more than welcome to lead her to the palace, where the family and their household had been placed together in an accommodating quarter, constituting of many rooms and small living spaces.

Lothíriel's own chambers were small in comparison to her chambers at home, but were regardless well furnished and had an agreeable view of the rest of the city below. She silently thanked the servants for their foresight in preparing a steaming, fragranced bath for her in the corner of the room, and once alone, she immediately stripped out of her dress and stepped in, sighing as the heat numbed the dull pain all over her stiff body. She undid her hair from its tight restraint at the nape of her neck and dropped the pins onto the tiled floor, knowing that a servant girl would pick them up for her.

"997...991...983...977..."

Her voice was barely a whisper in the bathroom, the primes coming to her lips automatically. It was a therapeutic technique to help her relax that she had memorised; she also counted using squares, factorials and permutations. She recited her prime numbers backwards from 1000, till she felt herself relax around the 541 mark. Without another thought, she dunked her head below the surface of the water and the whole world around her dissolved until there was just the loud silence of the water embracing her ears.

.&.

Thirteen glorious hours of dreamless sleep until Lothíriel was awoken the next day well past noon by her handmaiden. Once she had finally managed to get up and out of bed, stretching out her muscles, she found herself revitalised. She readied herself for the day, knowing that there was to be a pre-coronation social gathering (it wasn't nearly as spectacular as a feast, and neither was it a formal sit-down dinner, but she had heard that there was going to be dancing involved) with the important houses across Gondor and Rohan tonight. But until then, she detached herself from the world and settled herself comfortably in a chair on the balcony, with a book and a stack of blank paper. Dipping her quill into a pot of ink resting precariously on the armrest, she wrote out a series of mathematical equations, trying to solve different puzzles that the book provided her with.

Hours must have passed without Lothíriel even glancing up, only sipping occasionally on a cup of tea which was always refilled by a servant buzzing around in and out of her chambers. Before she knew it, the sky was a canvas of explosive reds, and harmonizing yellows. Just as she got up to stretch out her legs, there was a knocking at her door, and she languidly went to open it as she came in from the balcony.

"Lothíriel, you aren't ready yet?!" Amrothos rushed in, taking in her dishevelled hair and the ink stain on her white sundress. "The evening is starting – I was sent to escort you to the hall." He looked at her as if she had gone crazy. Evidently, her handmaiden seemed to have forgotten to bring her out of her studious privacy, and was absent altogether. It wasn't like Lothíriel couldn't cope without her anyway.

"It's alright," she said, quite at her own leisure. "I'll just throw on a dress and fix my hair. I won't be long, brother."

She did as she said, and Amrothos was surprised at her tranquillity. His panic dissolved, as he took a seat on her bed. "This is quite a change, sister. You used to spend hours in front of the mirror, dolling yourself up for a special occasion."

She laughed behind the partition, where she was changing into an archetypal Dol Amroth dress, with short, off-the-shoulder sleeves and a V-neckline. It was perhaps less appropriate for the slightly chillier evenings here, and perhaps too casual when in the company of the King and Queen, but she didn't have the time to tie up a proper corset beneath her dress, and to don all these complicated, layered robes took too much effort.

"It's the new fashion, brother," she said, finally revealing herself in her light blue and silver gown. "It's an attempt at effortlessness and minimalism," she added drily.

"And like sheep, the young maidens will turn up to the coronation tomorrow with the exact same idea..." He grimaced at the lack of creativity and substance that most of the girls at court were afflicted with.

She sat down to expertly pin up her own hair. She left a few tendrils out to frame her face but otherwise it was set quite severely in a tight bun at the back of her head.

Patting a bit of rouge onto her cheeks and lips, as well as a bit of perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, she was done in less time than her brother had expected.

"You look radiant as always, sister," he complimented, offering her his arm.

They made their way to the hall, where, even with the doors shut, there was an anticipated wave of music and talk filtering into the corridor. When they entered, the brightness of the hall was momentarily blinding, and it took a moment for Lothíriel to take in the congregated groups of Gondorian nobles, of war heroes and high-ranked officers, and finally to those stood on the raised dais – the rest of her family with others she had yet to be introduced to.

"Amrothos!" came a loud shout between the throngs of people. "We've all been looking for you." It was one of his friends from the Dol Amroth militia. Lothíriel had not one iota what his rank or his name was. He gave a slight bow to the princess in greeting, but otherwise proceeded to drag her brother away. "A drinking contest between an elf and a dwarf, if you would believe! One of our men has already passed out trying to keep up with them!"

Their excited voices faded between the thick noise surrounding them, and Lothíriel found herself standing idly by herself in the centre of the room. She considered going to the dais to see her other brothers, but saw a few ladies whom she recognised, standing to one side. They waved at her enthusiastically as they saw her. She didn't know if she felt relieved to see them all again after such a long time, or if she felt dread for the inevitable trivialities that they all had so much fun discussing. Nevertheless, she made her way over to them and inspected them each head-to-toe, quite obviously judging their attire. She inwardly snorted, as she noticed the flared out bell sleeves and pale colours with wispy fabrics. They hadn't done a very good job at trying to imitate the Elvin Queen's sartorial choices, or at least they hadn't done a very good job at making it inconspicuous.

"Why, Lothíriel, you look beautiful!" Vanima, one half of the Lossarnach twins, said, whilst running a careful finger through the rich, pearlescent silks of Lothíriel's gown. Her twin, Mirya, was standing next to her, with a much more serene look on her face. The two sisters were identical in everything apart from disposition, the former being much more boisterous and... chatty.

"As do all of you," Lothiriel replied. "It really has been too long," she commented half-heartedly. "You're all faring well, I presume?"

Astawyn, perhaps the most handsome of the three, but also the ditsiest, gave a large grin as she looked behind Lothíriel to the front of the room. "Faring extremely well now that the King of Rohan has arrived."

Lothíriel looked behind her to survey exactly what it was that had piqued the attentions of the whole female population within the room. Well, he was certainly handsome in a roguish sort of way, with his long hair and his beard. Perhaps it was his character, or his exotic looks, but he wasn't what Gondorians typically thought of as attractive, and yet he had still managed to engage every woman's interest.

"I've yet to be introduced to the elusive kings," she murmured, taking a goblet of wine as a server passed by. "What are they like?" She wasn't particularly interested, but she knew Astawyn and Vanima were bursting to tell her.

"Technically, King Elessar isn't even a king till his coronation tomorrow, and Queen Arwen isn't even technically his queen yet either until their wedding in a few months, but everyone around here are simply too thrilled to have our monarchy back and are just continuing calling them King and Queen; to hell with propriety and all that!" Vanima supplied, becoming more and more excited the faster she talked. "But about the King – he's simply indescribable, Lothíriel," she continued uselessly, barely even taking in a breath. "It's as if he was born to be a king; he's so patient and calming, and his voice is so soothing..."

"And he's handsome!" Astawyn interrupted, "They both are! King Éomer is equally well-mannered, although perhaps less inclined to rule. All he needs is a Queen to support him." Her lingering hint in her aspirations was obvious and Lothíriel couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Yes, because that is a woman's sole purpose in life, isn't it? To support her husband," Lothíriel said drily. Mirya, who had kept quiet up to this point, was the only one to acknowledge Lothíriel's words with a small chuckle.

"And to the left of King Éomer is his sister, Éowyn, but that should be obvious; one can't really mistake the slayer of the Witch-king. Have you met her yet, Lothíriel? She is engaged to your cousin, is she not? If it weren't for the King marrying an elf, there would surely be a lot more excitement around your cousin and his fiancé. They do make a fine couple."

Lothíriel felt the urge to snap at the incessantly blathering Vanima, but resisted. "My idiot brothers have yet to drag me back over there and introduce me to all these _accomplished idols_ you speak so highly of," she drawled. "Perhaps I'll just go over and introduce myself," she decided. It was partly just an excuse to simply get away from her friends' endless chatter.

King Elessar and his queen saw her arrival before she had even gotten up the steps. They, along with Rohan's king and his sister, whom they had previously just been engaged in conversation with, had quietened on her approach. She could see, from the corner of her eye, her father, most likely sputtering in his cup when he saw that she approached first without performing the proper social etiquette of waiting till one of her male relatives introduced her. Nevertheless, she curtsied deeply in reverence to each of the royalty in turn, and called them each by their long, showy titles. Elessar and Arwen didn't correct her when she addressed them as King and Queen.

"It is such a thrill and an honour to meet you all. I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Prince Imrahil's youngest child and only daughter," she greeted, plastering on a lovely smile.

It was then that her father came over, and apologised for not introducing her first. She restrained from rolling her eyes, and instead linked her arm cordially with her father's.

"Lothíriel ruled over Dol Amroth in our absence," her father informed.

"I had a lot of help really... Ingrid, the matron at Dol Amroth, bore many of the duties of head of household. And Elphir's wife is always setting a good example to the other ladies." She wasn't just being modest for the sake of courtesy; she really didn't feel as if she had been involved in much during the war, although she did try to help in whatever way she could. She was simply not fit to rule in that way.

"Nonetheless, you must have been brave to carry the burden," Arwen spoke, her lilting voice never failing to steal a little bit of Lothíriel's breath every time she spoke.

"How can I talk about being brave during the war to the people who physically fought in it," she laughed. They had probably heard something similar from all the ladies in the room at some point in the evening, but they laughed nonetheless. The soldiers' heroics and valour fighting in the war were seen as something romantic in the eyes of many who had been absent from the frontline. Lothíriel knew this, but still she had said it.

When no one else spoke for a few seconds, Lothíriel found herself reverting yet again to the civil, sociable lady she was brought up to be. "The weather is so pleasant; I just hope that it will stay this fine for the coronation..."

Well at least her father looked pleased with her. She couldn't say as much for the rest of the group, particularly the siblings from Rohan, who looked as if that one sentence had really tipped them over the edge. She excused herself quickly, and cringed away from the scene. She was exceptional at small-talk to fill in silences, but perhaps it just took someone of a more _boring_ nature to catch onto her conversational cues. Lothíriel would not consider herself to be boring, but more often than not she felt it more appropriate to switch on that side of her – the well-bred, well-mannered princess – as most found her dry, wicked nature to be somewhat villainous and intimidating.

She saw Erchirion leaning against the wall watching the movements of the centre stage dancing ladies.

"Those royals are quite something," she said, approaching her brother.

He didn't even look away from the ladies, but grinned widely. "Aren't they? They're just what Gondor and Rohan need. Less of the stuffy aristocracy and more people like Éomer and Aragorn, who the people can really relate to..."

"I certainly don't feel like I can relate to them much... the beard for starters..." she grimaced. "However, the lady Éowyn I can relate to... we didn't talk much at all, but I got the impression as soon I saw her."

Erchirion looked as if he wanted to escape more conversation with his sister to go skirt-chasing again, but held firmly for a little longer. "Oh? I suppose I can see the similarity in your stubbornness... Faramir is going to have a hard time taming her."

" _Taming_ her? Really, brother, if anything needs taming it's that chauvinistic attitude of yours."

"My apologies, sister, that was thoughtless," he drawled, although he didn't really look all that apologetic.

"Yes, it was quite thoughtless. But, either way, I got the impression that the lady Éowyn has developed a strong distaste for me."

Erchirion's brows furrowed, and he finally faced her. "Perhaps if you stopped acting like a pompous princess and more like yourself..."

"Not all of it is a facade, brother," she said with a slight chuckle, "Sometimes even I get confused with who I'm supposed to be."

.&.

The evening had ended a few hours ago, with everyone retiring exhausted to their rooms. However, Éomer and Éowyn, as well as a few Rohirrim soldiers, had stayed in the empty Great Hall to nurse a nightcap and to reflect on both the evening, and on fond memories back before the war. They all sat on an elongated table, with the mess of the earlier festivities still in the process of being cleaned up by maids and servants fluttering in and out of the room.

Éothain was sat on the table, his feet resting on a chair, and one cheek resting in his hand. "These Gondorians don't know how to throw a real party," he groaned, lifting a tankard of ale to his lips.

Éomer shook his head in amusement. "Just you wait till tomorrow evening after the coronation, my friend. Tonight was simply a rehearsal."

Éowyn smiled too and added, "Yes, Faramir said it was sure to be spectacular. The people have not had cause for celebration in such a long time."

"Regardless, if I have to partake in any more of those flowery, peacock dances, I may just ride back to Rohan early."

"But the young ladies are at least a silver lining, are they not?" asked another soldier, with a slight suggestive rise of his brow.

"I suppose it would be of great advantage to you men if you enjoyed the timid, lacklustre specimen of female, who are indeed abundant at this court..." Éowyn replied seriously, much to the humour of her male company. "I, for one, cannot see the appeal in women who can't think for themselves, whether they are beautiful or not."

"You are quite severe in assessing your own sex, sister," Éomer murmured, amused at the turn in conversation.

"Those sorts of women do more harm for our gender than I will ever do by speaking against them! I've half a mind to not invite those pretentious creatures to my wedding – including the Princess Lothíriel. It is just a shame that her father and brothers, and even Faramir, speak so highly of her."

Éothain snorted into his cup. "Was she really that bad?"

"Éomer could tell you. She was the epitome of a well-trained princess, with her fake smiles and her curtsies. And then she enthused about the weather! I am sure you would find that she is well-versed in Gondorian poetry, and enjoys embroidery and reading romantic novels in her spare time," Éowyn mocked, with her own interpretation of Lothíriel's haughty tones.

"Éowyn," her brother scolded, although he couldn't help an entertained smile from tugging up his lips. "You exaggerate. She hasn't done anything to wrong you. She was rather genial actually."

"Genial?!" Éowyn repeated incredulously. "Brother, you're starting to sound like them!"

He simply sighed in tired resignation. "I have to be diplomatic about these things, Éowyn. Her father and brothers fought with us in the thick of battle. And you forget that we may require Dol Amroth's help in the coming months."

"Urgh, I hate diplomatic Éomer."

The rest of the small group snickered at that, but Éomer couldn't find it in himself to do so as well.

* * *

 _Review please! I would love to know what you think._


	2. Chapter II

A THOUSAND FLAWS & MORE

CHAPTER II.

* * *

The coronation of King Elessar was indeed a spectacle, and one which Lothíriel was glad she had witnessed. Although she had been less than impartial to the swarms of crowds outside the palace, and the lack of a breeze made the proximity to those around her almost unbearable, she abstained from even muttering a single syllable of complaint. Nevertheless, if anyone had chanced to look in her direction during the long speeches and vows, they would have seen the sentiment written plainly on her face.

The ceremony ended later than expected. By that time, the guests were famished and eagerly anticipating the feast. The great hall was filled to full capacity, with many more civilians being able to attend tonight. Lothíriel estimated that there wouldn't be enough floor space later in the night for everyone to dance safely, with at least an arm's length's distance between two couples.

She was sat on the raised platform, which had been installed with a table the length of the Anduin. She had been seated beside two of her brothers and opposite Faramir and his betrothed. On Éowyn's left sat her brother. She had clearly seen the grimace in Éowyn's eyes when she had noticed that the Dol Amroth princess had sat down in such close range. Lothíriel had simply smiled extra sweetly at the Shieldmaiden, giving even herself cavities.

The food came out quickly, with plates upon plates lining the tables, showing off an impressive assortment of buttered potatoes, thin cuts of seasoned pork chops and peppery steaks, roasted boars, great steaming casserole dishes, freshly baked and mellow bread rolls, and even spiny lobsters from the warm waters around Belfalas. There was enough wine and ale in the room to get the whole kingdom of Lothlórien drunk.

King Elessar made a short toast, before everyone raised their glasses in unison, their voices ringing out in cheers.

"That Lord Bérion scum keeps glancing over at you, sister," Amrothos whispered conspiratorially into Lothíriel's ear, as she was cutting up a particularly tough piece of rare cooked beef.

She discreetly flicked her eyes up at to the table closest to the raised platform, and indeed the young admirer was rather hawkish in his attempts at trying to catch a glimpse of her between his conversations with another young lady.

"Don't spoil my dinner with reminders of that oafish bore," she whispered back, the disgust clear in her tone. Her brother gave her a roguish grin, but understood that she was ending that particular conversation there.

"What are you two mischief-makers whispering about?" Faramir asked with a knowing look.

"Oh, simply the splendour of the room and the number of people in attendance," she said with a bored sigh. Her sarcasm was not lost on her cousin, who knew her mannerisms, but perhaps the same could not be said for the two Rohirrim siblings.

Elphir on the other side of her chuckled and added, "You should know better, cousin, than to ask what goes on in the minds of those two." He pointed his butter knife at Lothíriel and Amrothos, knowing that his two younger siblings always had wicked plans and judgmental opinions to bestow upon unfortunate victims.

"Merely keeping ourselves amused if you must know, cousin," Amrothos said finally.

"Speaking of keeping amused," Faramir piped up, suddenly remembering something, "We're all going out for a ride the day after tomorrow, care to join? We supposed tomorrow everyone will be nursing a hangover that they claim they don't deserve."

"Brilliant idea," Elphir said with a firm nod of his head.

"Great. Amrothos, Lothíriel?"

Before Lothíriel could politely feign a previous commitment, her brother snorted in amusement. "Lothíriel, going on a ride?!" The table looked quite startled at Amrothos' exclamation. "Lothíriel despises horses, don't you sister?"

Lothíriel was furious. She angrily kicked her brother under the table, hoping that the pain she caused would at least match her humiliation. It wasn't a confession that she shared easily, finding that it rather made people even more wary of her. She glared at her brother, an irate glower that was reciprocated on his end.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Faramir said sheepishly, trying to diffuse the tension between the two siblings, "Apologies, Lothíriel. What about you, Amrothos?"

"Definitely," Amrothos replied, not even looking away from his deadly stare at his younger sister, and added in a quieter voice, "if only to get away from this one for a few hours."

She kicked him again beneath the table in frustration, before abruptly turning back to her meal, pointedly ignoring her brother. ' _2500...2401...2304...2209..._ '

"You hate horses?" came the unexpected voice from beside Faramir.

Lothíriel looked up to see Éowyn's serious face, her lips set in a straight line. She wished she could have killed Amrothos right now with the steak knife she held in a vice like grip. Evidently, hating horses was a great insult to the Horse-lords, and now she felt like a fool for the second time since meeting these people.

"Oh, Lothíriel doesn't just hate horses; she's also absolutely terrified of them."Amrothos gave a mean snicker as Lothíriel kicked him for the third time under the table. He was definitely going to pay for this later.

She grasped around for a few seconds, desperately trying to find the right words in light of this awkward situation. "...It's a long story," she spoke lamely, taking another large sip of her wine. She was only half telling the truth, as most of her disgust for horses was largely unfounded.

"But horses are loyal and beautiful creatures," Éowyn said indignantly. It was clear that Éowyn wasn't going to let this go, and Lothíriel could see from her peripheral many others also stopping their conversations to try and eavesdrop on the conversation. The King of Rohan also looked expectantly at her for a reply, and seeing the slight dip of his brow indicating his anger boiling just beneath the surface incensed Lothíriel in turn. Thankfully, she was better at hiding it.

"I suppose I do not hold the same sentiments," Lothíriel shrugged.

"I must firmly agree with my sister on this," Éomer replied sternly, never minding that two people were now rallying against one, "Horses have served us well, both on the battlefield and off. It is true when they say that they are Man's best friend."

"If that's the case, I've never been more relieved to be a woman," she replied good-humouredly with a quirk of her eyebrow. Éowyn's incredulous look and Éomer's scowl should have severed any alliance between Gondor and Rohan right there, but thankfully, her eldest brother was there to save the day with his diplomatic reassurances that she was simply teasing.

The night matured quickly, until the black expanse of sky was peppered with blinking stars. The braziers in the hall had been lit and the warm glow of candles sent shadows dancing across the walls like animated marionettes. There wasn't one person in the whole hall who was not under the effects of alcohol to some extent or another. Even Lothíriel was feeling a bit tipsy, but every time she remembered the infuriating conversation with the Rohirrim siblings, she would feel herself sobering up in her anger, and would have to drink another glass of wine to relax again.

She excused herself from the table, although everyone else was engaged in conversations around her. She made her way over to Vanima, Mirya and Astawyn, who were observing the dancers at the side of the room, and awaiting a handsome gentleman to ask them to dance.

As predicted, the three of them had worn simple, summery dresses, similar to the one she had worn yesterday. She commended the dressmakers, who must have been on a tight deadline to create three identical dresses in less than a day.

Lothíriel, having expected this (and having more notice to get ready for the coronation), had worn instead one of her more complex designs with many silken layers, cut low at her chest and adorned with gold lacing. Her sleeves were cut short, pointing out sharply at her shoulders.

"Finally some civilised conversation," she said as way of greeting her friends. Although they were not the brightest or the most interesting of people, she would have preferred anyone's company, including the dreaded Lord Bérion, over another tense minute sat on that table.

Mirya smiled at her. "Was everything alright up there?" she asked quietly, in that knowing way that she was so good at. Lothíriel often got the feeling that Mirya was much smarter than anyone ever thought, but it was just a shame that she rarely spoke. It was not merely shyness – Lothíriel often saw her observing her surroundings, storing away bits and pieces of information that caught her attention. That was probably how Vanima, her twin, found out everything before anyone else.

"Just a small tiff with the King of Rohan and his sister," she replied nonchalantly, waving it away with a small flick of her wrist.

"You aren't getting along well with them then, I presume?"

"No, my dear Mirya, they absolutely loathe me." She rubbed her temples with an exasperated sigh. "But I suppose I haven't given them much reason to like me either."

"Perhaps you should stop playing the battlefield as you do, Lothíriel," she advised gently.

Lothíriel noted that Mirya was aiming a look directly at her, one that she usually saved for people who were being deceitful. Mirya truly was a good judge of character, as she could see through most lies and managed to read people like a book. Lothíriel had always had barriers and masks for different situations, yet she had never seen Mirya direct that expression at her; that's what had made Lothíriel confident that she had been doing a good job at keeping her overly-critical, sarcastic personality behind closed doors, and her mindless 'princess' face out in the open. But now, Lothíriel wasn't so sure.

"What do you mean?" Lothíriel asked cautiously, trying to keep a well-meaning smile on her face.

"I think you know, Lothíriel. You're always on the defensive, always trying to shield yourself from everyone with this facade and never letting anyone see your true colours."

Lothíriel stared at Mirya speechlessly. She hadn't known she had been so transparent. Mirya's revelations were disquieting, particularly as she had always tried to stay aloof in the capital, not quite getting close enough to Mirya, Vanima or Astawyn to call them very good friends. Court politics was always a savage affair, and Lothíriel had always tried to prevent herself from becoming the subject of gossip, whilst also asserting some amount of dominance, or else she would have been walked all over. The resulting character was a spoilt, arrogant princess, with nothing better to do than embroider, play cute little instruments, and occasionally pass judgement on easy prey. To be anyone else was to commit social suicide.

"I've always been told that one cannot be overly cautious, Mirya," Lothíriel tried to reason, at least to try and play off her surprise – at best to try and throw Mirya off her scent, so to speak.

"A small word of advice... we are not at war anymore, Lothíriel. There is no need to wear the armour you burden yourself with daily."

There was a sudden polite cough behind her, and a light touch at her shoulder. She whirled around, still half-bewildered at Mirya's attentiveness, but the surprise was quickly intensified.

"My lord," she said, the words coming out more like a question. She curtseyed quickly. King Éomer stood stiffly in front of her, with the severe look on his face that he wore around everyone apart from his family and close friends.

"Excuse me for interrupting. Would you care to dance, Lady Lothíriel?"

His proposal was as unconvincing as it was unexpected on Lothíriel's part. She could tell it took him a great deal of persuading to ask her to dance, and the way he gingerly held out his hand to her would have been offensive if she hadn't have felt the same way.

The orchestra changed their melody to a slower tune, with a soft cadence that rose and fell in harmony with each step of the dance. Their movements copied the other dancers around them, and the steps seemed to flow naturally from Lothíriel, as it also did from Éomer.

"You're a very good dancer," she complimented distractedly. She was watching the rest of the room behind his right shoulder, seeing some of the wide-mouthed, gaping stares from their spectators. She thought she saw the annoyed glare of Lady Éowyn as well. _'Well this definitely wasn't_ her _idea then,'_ Lothíriel silently thought.

"It helps in the battlefield to be light of foot."

"So do they teach all soldiers how to dance the waltz in Rohan?"

Her teasing question was denied an answer, as he quickly made his intent known. "Look here, I don't want you to get the wrong impression, what with me asking you to dance," he paused awkwardly, wondering if that was the right thing to say, but went on nonetheless, "but Elfhelm, my lieutenant and arguably the rational side of my conscience, convinced me to come over here and apologise. And so I apologise to you, my lady, for acting anything but accommodating since meeting you,"

Lothíriel inwardly frowned. This apology was completely out of the blue and evidently insincere; the sentiment was absent and the idea wasn't even his in the first place. "I thank you for the apology, but I admit I am as reluctant to accept it as you were to offer it in the first place."

His eyebrows rose, as he looked down at her from his towering height. "You refuse my apology?"

"I'm sorry, my lord, I forgot I can't refuse a king."

His face hardened, and Lothíriel felt a momentary jolt of regret that she may have really said something that had truly angered him.

"I'm not a king. Just a usurper," his quiet mumble almost didn't register to Lothíriel, who momentarily stilled in her movements. His resigned confession was heartbreaking and puzzling, but she could see the defeated look on his face, an expression that he shared with her father, her brothers and all the other soldiers who had fought in the war. It spoke of how much they had lost, it was survivor's guilt, it was remembering the chaos and the bloodshed and the wrenching screams of desperation. "I'm not a king, so you can refuse me anything," he finally said, trying to give her a reassuring smile which felt more like a grimace to her to conceal his momentary lapse.

The dance ended and the couples broke away. Lothíriel bowed stiffly to Éomer and he too returned the gesture. They didn't say another word to each other. Lothíriel felt as if it ought to have been a small victory to her, but then she remembered Mirya's words from earlier, about how they were not in a war anymore, and she forgot what she was fighting for in the first place.

* * *

 _It's Mean Girls in Middle Earth - you can't join Mathletes, it's social suicide!_

 _Review please!_


	3. Chapter III

A THOUSAND FLAWS & MORE

CHAPTER III.

* * *

Since being reunited with her family after months apart, Lothíriel had treasured the intimate suppers that they would have together in the small dining area in their father's chambers. It was the one slice of normality that they had reclaimed in Minas Tirith. They would leave the terrace doors open wide enough to allow an evening breeze to rustle the silk drapes, and they would often talk a lot about the past, and about foregone memories of their childhoods: how a young Lothíriel had screamed with terror when a jellyfish had stung her lower leg, and that time when Amrothos returned home from the tavern after a few too many drinks, and had woken the whole Bay of Belfalas up with his uproarious rendition of a rather saucy song that was popular amongst the soldiers.

They talked about the upcoming festivities in Minas Tirith, including the two weddings that were happening in the coming weeks. And they talked of finally going home to Dol Amroth once all the post-war affairs had been settled in the capital and what they would all do first as soon as they arrived home.

Lothíriel could see it though, even if they didn't want her to see it. It only became more apparent since the dance with King Éomer at the coronation feast yesterday. When a silence would descend upon the family, their silverware only making the slightest scratch against the plates, she could see the unsettled looks in her father and brother's downcast eyes. When the balcony door once blew shut from a strong gust of wind with a resounding bang, they had tried to play off how startled they had become at some sort of resurfaced memory; their fingers would instinctively reach straight for the knife at the table before loosening again when they realised where they were.

Even though she so looked forward to these snippets of their idyllic past, every dinner had felt restrained, like they were trying to be careful around her, skirting around topics which were unavoidable.

There was a fear in their avoidance that the destruction that they had witnessed on the frontline had also reached their little, overlooked corner of Gondor. Lothíriel felt that to them, holding on to the memory of this sanctuary that they had all grown up in had been the only thing keeping them sane.

She had tried to keep the mood light and to maintain the dry humour that she felt only her family really appreciated, but now, every time she saw the mix of emotions flash in her brother's eyes, like they were staring at a ghost of someone they knew right in front of them, she couldn't help but to picture King Éomer's equally conflicting expression.

"It's called battle fatigue," she commented quietly, when a lull in their conversation had created an incredibly still environment, where even a speck of dust falling into place would garner the gaunt, alarmed glare of one of her brothers. "I read about it briefly in a book on mental conditions. It's a relatively new concept, but one that has never been more relevant."

The four other faces at the table looked up at her in surprise.

"You can stop pretending, you know," she suggested, all caution ignored at bringing up a topic they had all been avoiding. "You can stop pretending that everything has been fine since the war ended. I know you've all been suffering."

Her father interrupted her there, bringing up his palm to quiet her worries. "Lothíriel, whatever state of mental wellbeing you imagine us to be in should not be your concern. Your brothers and I all survived, we have recovered and we have never felt better."

"Physically, perhaps, but I can tell you're all still plagued by your memories of what happened, and your nightmares of what _could_ have happened." She gave a pointed look around the table, daring any one of them to disagree with her. Their eyes were downcast, and she could tell she had hit the mark. "But you know that you don't have to suffer alone. It's true that only time can heal these invisible wounds, but I'll do everything I can to help take your mind off of it, to bring you back to the present."

Her father gave her hand a tight squeeze and a grateful smile. "It seems quite uncharacteristic of you to show such care, child," Imrahil joked lightly. "But it just goes to show that you are truly your mother's daughter in every way." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder to place an endearing kiss on her head.

She smiled and closed her eyes to relish in the feel of her father's embrace. A weight was taken off her, but she knew that it would be slow progress to a full recovery for all of them.

"So tell us about our quaint little home by the seaside again, Lothí. I do love to be reminded of Dol Amroth and how I wished all this pomp and circumstance could be over already so we can return home," Erchirion said petulantly.

"You will be pleased to know that it has barely changed," Lothíriel started, describing their home in exactly the way that they remembered it. "The sea still ebbs and flows to the melodies of the moon, the gulls still hover over the city like diligent watchmen, and the samphire still grows abundantly along the whole coastline." She smiled at their soft smiles, glad that she had made them forget, even for a little while.

By midnight, the Dol Amroth household had all retired to their respective chambers. Now in the quiet candlelit enclosure on her balcony, Lothíriel let down her hair and breathed in the dusty air. If she closed her eyes to the darkness and let the wind whip around her hair, she could almost imagine herself standing on a tall cliff overlooking the Bay of Belfalas, seagulls chirping overhead and the ocean waves crashing into the rocks below her. She still hadn't the heart to tell her family the real situation that had gone on in Dol Amroth, at least not this soon after the war. It was true that it had not been touched by the darkness like the rest of the land, but that wasn't to say that the coastal city and its residents had escaped the war completely unscathed. Her memories of her home were suddenly tainted with the acrid smell of smoke, suffocating Lothíriel, taking her back to a time in the war that she felt would be better off erased from all their memories.

.&.

 _Flashback._

A look of pure horror crossed the Princess's face as she reached the top of the watchtower, the tallest point in the castle, which had a panoramic view of the whole city below. In the distance, she could see the smoke plumes rising from the farmlands in the east. Those fields were solely used for agriculture and bordered the coastline at the opposite end of Dol Amroth.

"Corsairs, my lady... of Umbar. They came at night, and because their plans never directly involved the castle or the city, their ships were overlooked by our watchmen. They took a discrete route straight to the beaches at the other end of the coastline, cut past the farmers who died trying to protect their land, and torched all the fields in the east. They managed to escape before anyone managed to get the message to the city."

Elphir's wife, Ophelia, had come to witness the destruction in the distance as well. She pushed herself to the window and had instantly regretted it. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock and sadness. "The farmers, all of them are dead?" she asked, with the tears filling up her eyes already.

The veteran soldier who had escorted them there and reported the events nodded solemnly. "46 casualties in total, including the family of the farmers."

Ophelia let out a small sob, moving away from the window now and falling back onto a bench.

Lothíriel stared at the scene in the distance, eyes hard and confused. She could just about see the relief groups sent there, consisting of both soldiers and civilians who had all volunteered to work together and put the flames out.

"Why would they do this?" Lothíriel asked. "Why now? Those _pirates_ haven't been seen near our shores for many decades!"

"It's believed that many of them have grown confident under the promises of the darkness. They have allied with the Haradrim and have been incessantly attacking many of the small towns and villages around Dol Amroth. Not only have they been pillaging and kidnapping their way through these towns, but they've also been setting fields alight, killing cattle, torching the warehouses – they don't just want their short-term vengeance, they want a long-lived victory that will cripple Gondor for centuries."

Ophelia stood up all of a sudden, the tear tracks still staining her porcelain skin. "So you mean to say they're not finished yet? The east farmlands only constituted about a third of our land agriculture, let alone our yields from the sea. If they want to deprive us of our food and our livelihoods, they're going to come back, aren't they?"

"Everyone believes it to be so. They'll come back for the rest, including the shipping ports, the docks, the factories, and they'll probably be coming for you two as well. Gondorian royalty will no doubt fetch a high price at the Haradrim slave markets."

A look of terror passed Ophelia's face at the prospect of being sold off to the highest bidder, to have to serve her enemies and face a fate worse than death.

"Stop scaring the poor woman," Lothíriel said with a flippant eye roll. "Ophelia, you're my sister-in-law, and you and Elphir will soon rule Dol Amroth. If you can't handle a few pesky corsairs without Elphir by your side, then you really weren't the woman I thought you were."

Ophelia looked a bit offended at first, but got over it a second later when she thought about their situation and how hopeless it seemed. "And how would you suggest fighting them off, Lothíriel? Dol Amroth's only chances at beating these foes are riding against the Dark Power residing in Mordor right now. We have nothing here to protect us. We are a city occupied only by old folk, women and children."

Lothíriel was at a loss there, but she couldn't just let her city be overrun. Her brow furrowed in thought, as she looked back out the window at everything she could lose. She turned towards the Swan Knight, dressed up in his prestigious armour. His face, wrinkled and expressive on one side and smooth on the other, was the reflection of a quietly tortured soul, who had seen too many battles in his lifetime – and evidently given up too much in the name of King and country. The smooth side of his face was like a marbled surface, burnt all along his cheekbone, pulling the hood of his eyelid over an empty socket. "What's your name soldier?"

"Beran, my lady. Your father put me in charge of the Dol Amroth militia in his absence – or what's left of it here."

"Beran… Just how many men do you think we're facing?"

The soldier hesitated momentarily. "It must be well over two hundred, my lady. It's not much in absolute terms, but most definitely more than we can handle on our own."

The numbers flew into Lothíriel's mind naturally, trying to calculate just how many people were in the city. "Indeed, the Swan Knights are outnumbered by these foes if we were to engage them in direct combat… but we have the advantage here. You forget that this city was built to withstand attacks from all angles, whether it come from the air, from the land, or from the sea. We can fortify the coastline to keep all intruders out."

Ophelia's face blossomed into understanding. "All we need are watchmen, some archers and people manning the catapults and trebuchets on the wall. Children make excellent watchmen – they have keen eyes which can see much further in the darkness and they will relish the adventure. The missile weaponry can be easily handled by some of the elderly – there are many veterans after all. And the Swan Knights are of course excellent archers."

Lothíriel quirked the side of her lip up at the quick solution by her sister-in-law. "Wonderful. We'll need to make preparations as soon as possible." She turned back to Beran and ordered him with an authority that came naturally to her. "Ingrid should have inventoried the storage rooms and the armoury beneath the castle a few days ago. If I remember correctly, they should be fully stocked with fire arrows, cannons… everything we should need. Go down there with a couple of your men and gather _everything_. We will need every weapon in our arsenal available to us."

"I'll go with Beran. I need to ensure that the tunnels running beneath the castle are stocked with food and other supplies, in case we need to evacuate civilians," Ophelia offered. She followed the solider to the stairs, but Lothíriel remembered something before they could descend.

"One more thing," she said, her stoic face contrasting with the fraught expression on Ophelia's face. "No one will send word of this turn of events to His Grace and the Dol Amorth encampment." She threw a cautious look at Ophelia, but continued quickly. "We don't want to cause undue worry for my father or brothers, and the last thing we want is for them to abandon their mission and ride back here."

She knew how Ophelia felt about keeping secrets from Elphir, but until the war was over, they were not going to take the risk of being the cause for distraction. "Agreed. No one will know about this, until they return home… and they _will_ have a home to return to," Ophelia vowed.

Beran looked at them both in turn, before nodding his head deeply. "If it is as you so wish, my lady."

.&.

Lothíriel had holed herself in the library for the majority of the morning, trying to sneak away to somewhere secluded to avoid an embroidery session with the other young ladies of the court. She had stayed for about half an hour, listening to their idle talk about dreams of getting married to various handsome, but frighteningly boring, bachelors of the kingdom. It was this sort of pointless talk that had pushed Lothíriel over the edge in the end, and she had stood abruptly, citing a premeditated excuse and had left without another word.

She had discovered a book on calculus, written by an Elvin mathematician, whose lifework on the study of calculus' use in the running of a nation had been buried into obscurity... or at least, forgotten in the depths of a sprawling library. Either way, the massive tome looked as if no one had touched it in centuries; its pages were thin and delicate, but not yellowed by sunlight, and its binding was stiff and unyielding.

Lothíriel's Sindarin was rusty, without the chance to practice it, but with the help of a dictionary, she managed to decipher most of the text. She copied down problems into her own journal, and completed them with the occasional help of the author's thorough solutions.

She had been sifting through the great textbook for a while now, totally engrossed in the work she was carrying out. She hadn't even noticed how much time must have gone by, as the next time she sat up from her hunched position over the desk, her back and neck protested severely. She winced as the ache spread through her upper body. She pushed her chair back and stood to stretch out her muscles. Looking out through the library's stain-glassed windows, she could see the sun almost reach its highest peak in the day, and thought it a perfect time to take a break and wind down with a small, modest luncheon, perhaps outside the palace. She carried her books wrapped under her arm with the intention to carry on her work after lunch, before she approached a servant in the hallway.

"Bring a small lunch to the front of the palace, would you? Something modest, a bit of bread and jam will do."

The servant curtsied before heading to the kitchen to relay the Princess's order.

She made her way through the front doors of the palace, two guards either side of the door standing to attention as they saw her. It was a hot day today, nothing like the southern summers, but it was certainly the right temperature for her Dol Amroth dress, with its light, silken material and bared arms.

As Lothíriel was stepping down the white shallow steps to the courtyard, she heard someone call her name.

"Lothíriel, sister!" It was Erchirion calling up to her, from atop his monstrous white steed. He moved his horse to stand just at the bottom of the staircase.

The horse sent shivers up Lothíriel's spine, but she ripped her eyes from the lithe, dangerous form of the warhorse and locked her eyes with her brother. She knew the horse could easily trot up the stairs to harm her, but she at least trusted her brother's ability to control his steed. She shielded her face with her free hand to prevent the glare of the afternoon sun from blocking her view. "Are you joining Faramir and company for that ride around the city?"

"Indeed. Are you sure you don't want to join? There's a cute mare in the stables, who is very well-behaved and just itching for a bit of fresh-air."

She knew her brother only meant well, but Erchirion knew there was no amount of coaxing from any of them that would make her step anywhere near a horse again, no matter how ' _cute_ ' they were.

"Thank you, Erchirion, but I am much too busy," she said, gesturing to the books held against her chest.

She gave him a closed-lipped smile and a gentle tilt of her head, trying to await his departure as patiently as she could.

"Erchirion!" a voice called out from the far side of the courtyard. Three more horses and their riders were riding up to her brother now. She noticed Amrothos on one of them, but it was the two other riders which made her frown deeply and take a cautious, slow step back up one stair. Éowyn and King Éomer were each riding their own huge beasts, both stallions and both approaching the steps at a hazardous pace. Éomer managed to rein his horse by Erchirion's easily, but Éowyn pulled on her bridle hard to get her stallion to stop just short of the first shallow step. The horse reared up on his hind legs and gave a loud, low neigh. The front legs of the horse levitated in the air for several moments, the kick just a few centimetres from Lothíriel's face. The proximity, the sudden action, the unexpected noise from the monster caused Lothíriel to drop her books and jump several feet in the air. She froze in her spot until Éowyn got her horse back under control and calmed it down with a few strokes down its neck.

"I'm sorry, princess, Windfola is quite the hot-headed horse," Éowyn apologised, trying to keep the humour from her eyes.

Lothíriel swallowed thickly, knowing that she had been made the butt of a joke shared between the Rohirrim, and even more so now that she had been humiliated in front of the royal siblings and her brothers. Erchirion and Amrothos spared her a short, sympathetic glance as they watched their sister pick up the large books she had dropped. As soon as she had collected them and wrapped both arms around them, she took another step back up the stairs. The way that all four horses were crowding her at the moment made her unexplainably nervous and she shifted on her feet. She tried to find the words to disguise her anxiety. "It's alright, my lady." She held her head high, but her eyes remained pointing to a spot on the ground. "Your riding companions are already starting to ride down the city levels; you should go before they get too far ahead. Have a safe ride." She curtsied politely but her knees felt like they would give out any second now.

Éowyn plastered a smile on her face before turning her horse around and galloping away.

"Are you alright, Lothí?" Erchirion asked quietly.

Lothíriel looked up at both her brothers, who were staring down at her in concern. Her eyes squinted at the sharp glare of the sun behind them, but managed a smile. "Perfectly fine, brothers. Now go, before you end up riding back in the dark."

They hesitated for just a second, not entirely convinced, but eventually they too turned and rode after Éowyn.

"My lord, have you changed your mind?" She pivoted slightly to turn to directly face the only person left, whose horse had been impatiently padding the same ground beneath its hooves for the last two minutes.

Éomer sat atop his horse with a conflicted expression on his face. He watched Lothíriel's own for a few seconds, but the same look of dispassion did not give anything away. Wordlessly, he turned to follow the rest of his riding group. She watched him ride down the upper level, down into the heaving city below. As soon as he and his horse were out of sight, Lothíriel's tense shoulders dropped and her knees almost buckled out beneath her. She let out a huge gasp of air that she had been holding in. Her breath came fast and heavy, and she steadied a hand to her chest to try to calm herself down. The fear that had gripped her heart was slowly dissipating, being quickly replaced by a humiliating irritation at the cruel joke that Éowyn had subjected her to.

* * *

 _There is literally no excuse for my complete lack of posts...  
_ _Apart from the shitstorm of work I've had to do over the past few weeks..._

 _Sorry._

 _I'm still not entirely happy with this chapter. Consistency is the hardest thing for me - I want the story to make complete sense in later chapters and that requires planning ahead. So therefore, we have established that being a prophet would be a great complementary career to writing stories._

 _Eugh. Anyway. As always, review please!_


	4. Chapter IV

A THOUSAND FLAWS & MORE

CHAPTER IV.

* * *

The riding party followed the spiralling path down the different levels of Minas Tirith. By the time they made it to the bottommost level, it had been a few hours since they had taken off. Between civilians, market stalls and houses half-destroyed, they had not risked riding at a pace faster than a trot. But now they had reached the front entrance, with two on-duty guards on either side of the broken gate. When the guards saw who approached, a company consisting of a foreign king, esteemed princes and the Steward, they instantly stood to attention, their heavy uniforms clanking at the joints. The various royal figures were flanked on all sides by loyal soldiers, some in the familiar gunmetal grey shade that the guards themselves donned, some in much more striking silver and blue armour, and many more in forest green capes and weathered brown leather.

As soon as they had escaped the fortress, and were out on the wide plains of the Pelennor, Éowyn was the first to break away, urging her horse into a full-speed run. Éomer was quick to follow, and each man behind him let their horses take the rein. It was like a tidal wave at the mouth of Minas Tirith, each soldier starting slow, before they had enough space to speed up and shoot out into different directions.

There was no feeling in the world which could compare to the wind whistling in numb ears, the lull of the rhythmic hoof beats and the power of speed and strength emanating from Firefoot. Éomer was almost back home, riding atop of his faithful steed in the infinite grasslands of the Riddermark. But looking around him, he knew he was far from home. Instead, he was riding through a field of bad memories and taunting reminders of bloodshed and death. The grass was patchy and scorched black in some places from the unforgotten battle. Debris that had been overlooked and uncollected still peppered the floor – fractured shards of armour, a clump of torn-out horse mane, the soiled red cloth off a dead Haradrim's back.

There was a bad smell in the air, almost of rotting flesh, as if he was back on the battlefield, a spear in one hand, and his other clutching onto Firefoot's reins for dear life. But he shook the pungent stench out of his imagination.

The weight of dark thoughts suddenly pervading his mind and digging up fresh memories was not only Éomer's burden at that moment. Looking to his right and left, he could see the pale faces of men he had fought with, barely containing the grief through trained expressions. They were all riding through a graveyard.

Through his peripheral, he could see the familiar head of blonde, braided hair turn her horse slightly, splitting off from their party. He turned to follow quickly, instantly knowing where she would go. He was saddened to see that she remembered the exact spot where their Uncle died and where she had faced off with the great Witch-king.

Éowyn had dismounted and had fallen to the hard ground on her knees. As Éomer approached slowly on foot, he could see that his sister's head was bowed and eyes scrunched closed, jaw tensed. Her tears were held at bay.

"People call me brave all the time, for facing off with the Witch-king." Éowyn's quiet muttering almost didn't reach Éomer's ears over the whistling of the wind. "But I don't feel brave. I didn't feel brave then, and I still don't feel brave now. In fact, I hadn't felt more scared in my life."

Éomer's heart broke a little at hearing the vulnerability in his sister's words. "I am so sorry I didn't protect you." He knelt down next to her and cradled her head against his armoured chest. "It is my fault that you had to experience that."

"No. I wanted to be here. I wanted to prove that I could do it, that I could be a warrior too. I wanted to, for once, not be on the sidelines, watching as the people I love rode off for battle. I wanted to be the one to avenge Uncle. There wasn't anything you could have done to stop me."

There was a silence, before Éowyn spoke again, with a short, cynical laugh. "See, I didn't even feel brave for saying those words. All that this wretched field brings up is an overwhelming, crushing sense of fear, as if I'm still fighting for those around me."

Éomer understood completely. "Maybe we shouldn't have come here. So long as the ground is still charred, this place is cursed."

Éowyn gently laid her palm flat against the dry, yellow grass, just where their Uncle had passed. "It is a little cathartic though, is it not." She smiled sadly up at her brother, before getting up and remounting Windfola. The rest of the company had ridden over to the foot of the surrounding mountains, where freshwater streams ran from the icy peaks overhead. Éomer and Éowyn quickly rode to catch up.

As the horses were allowed a rest and a drink, Faramir had sought Éowyn out through the throngs of soldiers milling about, conversing in hushed, respectful tones, as if at a funeral.

"This ride here has only made me want to return Théoden's body back home all the sooner," Éowyn muttered, instinctively wrapping an arm around her fiancé's waist and burying her head in his chest. Fararmir, in return, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder, offering his silent support. They walked together like this for a while, breaking away from the others. Faramir then let go of Eowyn, and stood in front of her at a distance.

"My cousins have informed me about what you did to Lothíriel earlier today... riding up to her and taunting her with Windfola." His voice was still soft, but it held an accusatory undertone to it now.

Éowyn frowned but straightened her back. "Yes. And what of it?"

Faramir frowned in turn and crossed his arms over his chest. "Éowyn…" He drew her eyes back to him with a level, settled stare. It wasn't filled with anger, but she could see and hear his disappointment. "You could have seriously hurt Lothíriel."

Éowyn tilted her head and rolled her eyes. "It would never have come to that. Windfola is my horse, and I know how to control him."

"But what if? What if your hand had slipped on the reins? What if Windfola took your command the wrong way? It is fair to say Lothíriel would be severely hurt and you would have a lot to explain to her father and brothers."

"Faramir, it was a _practical joke._ Haven't you ever played a joke on anyone?!"

Her tone was getting loud enough to draw attention to them from the other soldiers. Faramir took Éowyn's arm gently and led her away, but as soon as they were sufficiently far enough, she snatched back her arm.

"Éowyn, what you did was reckless and irresponsible."

Éowyn clenched her jaw tightly. This seemed like it would turn out to be the biggest fight the couple had yet had, and Faramir, by the miraculous ability of being patient and seemingly all-knowing, had not even raised his voice. She, on the other hand, felt her irritation rising, and having just come from the exact spot where her uncle had fallen, and feeling the crushing weight of being back here, did nothing to help the circumstances either.

"I cannot handle this right now," she furiously muttered. Before things could really escalate to a full-fledged argument, Éowyn walked away, furious at the gall of her fiancé to pick a fight over _Lothíriel_ of all things.

"Éowyn, we're not done talking yet," Faramir called out to her back. She was walking towards her horse, which had been contentedly resting in the shade. Once Windfola saw his master approach, heavy-footed and arms stiffly swinging at her sides, the horse was at attention, padding the ground, ready to move.

"I am finished talking," she called back angrily behind her shoulder, her pace never slowing.

"Éowyn!" he futilely called out once again. The conversations emitting from the soldiers and guards had all stopped, and they looked just as guilty as if they had been caught listening in when they weren't supposed to.

Éowyn swung her leg up onto her horse, her saddle forgotten about after she had taken it off to let Windfola rest earlier. It didn't faze her to ride bareback – she even preferred it. Without any other acknowledgement to anyone around her, she tangled her hands in Windfola's mane and kicked the horse into action, signalling at her steed to ride fast.

Faramir followed the blazing path of his fiancée with dejected eyes. Just as he was about to grab his own horse to follow after her, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him from moving any further.

"Let her go for now, my friend." It was Éomer behind him, offering his well-meaning advice. "Éowyn likes to ride off her frustrations."

Faramir sighed in defeat, rubbing furiously at his eyes. "What do you think of this whole situation?" he asked, knowing that Éomer had seen the scene firsthand. "You understand my concern, do you not?"

Éomer frowned, reluctant to go against his sister on this. He had almost always tried to stick up for her, and his small nod in agreement almost felt like a betrayal. He couldn't deny it to Faramir though; what his sister did earlier to the Lady Lothíriel was petty and dangerous, and what's more, it reflected badly on the whole of Rohan. After all, Éomer knew all too well how some Gondorians felt towards his own people – he didn't want to sour their relations further.

"Will you please talk to her?" Faramir pleaded. "You seem like the only one who can get through to her."

A slight inclination of his head was all Faramir needed as confirmation. Éomer patted his friend's arm twice before grabbing his horse, intending to follow after Éowyn, who had been riding around the plains in loops and circles with no clear direction.

When Éomer reached Éowyn, he could see that she was clearly distressed. Her horse, as a result, acutely felt his rider's agitation and was throwing its head back and forth as it trotted around aimlessly.

Éomer dismounted Firefoot a few feet away and walked slowly up to Windfola. Éowyn was deep in thought, the middle of her brow creased deeply; she barely even heard anyone approach, until she heard her brother's soft, hushed tones, trying to calm down Windfola, at first from a safe distance, before gradually moving forward as Windfola slowed to a halt. Éomer was a familiar and trusted presence for Windfola, and his gentle strokes along the horse's neck calmed it down considerably.

Éomer lifted Éowyn up and off the horse by her waist before she could even protest.

"Did Faramir send you? Because if he did, you can tell him that I will not apologise to him, or to Lothíriel!"

Éomer was close to almost laughing at his sister's crabbiness and her uncompromising tones, but he tamed it until it was just a small, nostalgic smile, being reminded of when they were children, before the war made everyone serious and dispassionate.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I come in peace."

"So he did send you!"

All Éomer could do in response was shrug his shoulders guiltily.

"Well you can turn around immediately and go back! I will not continue this conversation." To top off her melodramatic stubbornness, Éowyn crossed her arms over her chest and turned away slightly, her ears straining back, waiting to hear her brother climb back onto Firefoot and trot away. But to her frustration, all she heard was laughter; at first, it started muffled and suppressed, but as she whipped around in mortification, Éomer was doubled over with laughter.

"Éomer!" she admonished urgently. "Have you gone mad?!"

At her tone, Éomer couldn't help but to laugh even more. "Oh sister," he eventually said between bursts of chuckles. He wiped away the tears beneath his eyes. "I cannot tell you how good it is to have you back."

Éowyn still didn't understand and felt her irritation rise at being laughed at so thoroughly. "What are you _talking_ about? I thought you were here to scold me about Lothíriel too." Even saying her name caused a scowl to grace Éowyn's features.

"Lothíriel? Oh I would thank her a thousand times over for bringing my sister back to me. It has truly been too long since I have seen you so intensely unyielding. A resolute mountain battling the Rohan winds, is how mother used to describe it."

At the mention of their mother, Éowyn's expression reluctantly softened, until she too was almost smiling. "I have always been stubborn, you know that, brother."

"Perhaps, but the war changed you, my dear Éowyn. It changed us all, but it would always break my heart seeing you so defeated in those days with the Worm around. To see you now, so spirited and impassioned, even if it is because of a silly, petty strife–"

The smile wiped off of Éowyn's face immediately, and a dark shadow passed over her eyes again. Éomer knew he had put his foot in it and gulped heavily. The time for humour had ended.

" _Silly_? _Petty_?" she hissed. "Do not dare to trivialise my detestation of that infernal chit of a woman. She is the embodiment of everything that is wrong and flawed with the race of Men. Her vanity, her self-entitlement, her ignorance…"

Éomer's brow creased together in concern. He had always wondered how Lothíriel had wronged Éowyn for his sister to act so uncharacteristically, but now it seemed less like a personal vendetta.

"Whilst everyone was fighting to survive during the war, sacrificing everything just to keep their homes and families safe, constantly fearing for what tomorrow would bring… she was kept safe and blind in her untouched castle in a city unaffected by the hardships of war. And now, whilst we struggle with the nightmares of what we have endured and what we have yet to endure in the aftermath… the most she has to fear are _horses_."

"I see…" was all Éomer could say in the moment. And he did see. He understood a bit more now why Éowyn had been acting up where it concerned the Princess of Dol Amroth. Éowyn had always tried to fight for what she knew was right; in a way, hating Lothíriel was almost a default for Éowyn when Lothíriel represented every social injustice and inequitable outcome that Éowyn strove so hard to oppose.

"In a way," Éowyn continued, a bitter smile turning up the corner of her lips, "she has everything. She is simple-minded, naïve and privileged, but that is all anyone wants in a world so filled with terror and chaos. That is why I will not apologise to Lothíriel and will continue to defend my actions. She has everything and will continue to have everything. She has no need of my apology, and I have no intentions of giving her more."

"So that is what this was all about…" Éomer finally said quietly. "She is vain, whilst you are not. She is inexperienced, whilst you have fought pivotal battles and made heroic sacrifices. She is privileged and arrogant, whilst you are humble. I have never heard a bigger lie than 'opposites attract'."

"The way you say it, brother, makes it sound as if I am intentionally trying to compare my virtues to her flaws, which is not the case. It is just that people like her aggravate me to no end! They are stuck in a past where everything was brighter and simpler."

There really was no use in trying to convince her of anything anymore. Éowyn had her opinions, so modern and valiant as they were, and not even the fragile balance between newly-formed allies, or her upcoming nuptials to Lothíriel's cousin, would shake Éowyn into thinking any differently. "There is no helping it. Nothing I will say shall change your mind and so there is no use forcing you to repent. All I can ask of you, however, is that those taunting games of yours should stop."

Éowyn shrugged noncommittally. "All good things must come to an end. They were fun whilst they lasted, I suppose…" Éowyn grinned up at Éomer mischievously, to which he couldn't help but return, reminding him of their reckless pranks as children. An unacknowledged and unspoken truce was settled between the two siblings, as they walked back to their horses, ready to ride back to the rest of the party.

"I am not entirely sure whether Faramir will be pleased I brought you back to him or furious that you still refuse to apologise."

"Oh Faramir is never furious. He simply simmers gently, like a patient pot on a mild and tender fire," Éowyn teased. "But that makes it all the easier to break the news to him."

"Even so, I will not be there when you do. Being involved in a lover's tiff is not something I would kindly do again. And I doubt the soldiers would very much like to overhear an argument between the two of you again either…"

"Was it really that bad?" Éowyn cringed in thought of having lost her temper so conspicuously in front of esteemed soldiers, as well as the Princes of Dol Amroth.

"Bad enough that they will know now, if they did not know before, not to mess with you," Éomer said lightly, winking at his beloved sister. He was glad they were back to this rapport, having missed it whilst he was in exile and even before that, when the Worm was introduced to court.

As they rode back to the riding party, everything seemed back to normal with the soldiers, but Faramir was stood waiting for them. Éomer saw his sister go to him immediately to apologise for her behaviour. He wasn't sure how Éowyn and Lothíriel would work out their differences now if the former refused to apologise and he doubted the latter would dare broach the subject first. But Éomer was sure that both he and Faramir agreed that some sort of accord would have to be reached before Éowyn's wedding if the two women were ever going to acknowledge each other as family.

* * *

 _Thank you for all the reviews so far! Love hearing back and I always try and act on constructive criticism._  
 _I've got to admit though, there's a few vengeful spirits in some of you who hope that Lothíriel will exact revenge on Éowyn! Who knows, maybe Lothíriel is the vengeful type too?_

 _I definitely feel like_ _Éowyn thinks that_ _Lothíriel is like the Kardashian/Jenner of Middle Earth; you know, her existence is a bit useless and insubstantial and maybe her life is a bit of lie, but she's still so popular and rich... maybe that makes_ _Éowyn_ _the Blac Chyna or the Amber Rose in comparison..._ _  
ANYWAY, I shan't ruin the story more by comparing it to popular media..._

 _Reviews are, as always, welcome!_


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